Tag: writing

Samsung and Da-Liar (episode 3) Parental Advisory, rated IA Immature Adult

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Da-Liar

Sexual Healing (Afternoon Delight)
Da-Liar was a manipulative and underhanded bitch to put it as nicely as possible. Her love of sex was outdone only by her love of money and power. Her specialty was spinning men’s heads (both!) rendering them senseless wrapped around her sensuous fingertips. Da-Liar enjoyed using her uncanny ability of teasing the male libido to heights previously unexplored. She employed near torturous techniques of bring them to the very brink of orgasmic explosion only to slow it down and tease some more. When the moment arrived when they could hold on longer they’d be willing to anything at all for her in exchange for sexual release. Da-Liar had men do things to various parts of her body they would have flatly refused of any other woman. Her skill level at sexual pleasing was legendary and any man or women foolish enough to get caught in her vaginal web hadn’t a prayer of escape and would most certainly hand over all their worldly goods and most of their unworldly. Trophies she had many, golden chariots, designer cloths, jewelry, gold coins, nearly anything she desired she could extract easily. Great Goddess Madonna she was living in a material world and she was the material Girl.
Da-Liar had her eye on Samsung from that very first meeting when her sister gave her ten dollars to go away. She pocketed the cash and spied on the two lovers who snuck off into the woods. Da-Liar stared at that beautiful hunk of an Israelite as he pumped away on top of her sister. When she caught a glimpse of his eye popping ginormous erection she even blushed. “My god almighty the things I could do with that maypole.” She wished it were her underneath the muscular sex machine and she touched herself ever so sensuously when he started doing his slo-motion push ups that had Semedar singing that loud lovers tune “Fuck Me Hard Samsung.” Da-Liar watched everything very intently taking special note of how mesmerized and vulnerable Samsung became when her sister filled her mouth and continued the tune in a harmonic humming chourus.
She also took notice of his long and luxurious blond locks. Maybe he was born with it, maybe it was Maybeline but either way his hair was fucking gorgeous. Da-Liar watched the bulging arms caress his sister and she knew one day her chance would come. And it had, even better than he expected. Not only had she planted the seeds of desire with her catty antics and feigning trustworthiness, but those antics had banned her sister slyly removing her from Samsung. On top of that she would soon be approached by King Davy’s team with even more motivation. The promise of flat screen TVs, top of the line chariots, jewelry and bags of gold to make her wealthy beyond her dreams would that would prove too hard to resist. It wasn’t long before the band of Philly-Steens approached her.
Opportunity was at hand (and foot, mouth, and every other anatomically correct body part). Semedar had been exiled in shame and the burly sex machine with his ripped muscles were lonely, hurt, and vulnerable. Semedar had shredded his gears and Da-Liar was the one who knew just what to do to crank them back up.
Da-Liar was approached by three henchmen of the infuriated King Davy Jones. Mickey, Mike, and Peter jumped the last train to Clarksville to meet with Da-Liar. The Philly-Steen Kingdom had strong tenets and they questioned whether or not she was a believer. “Oh I’m a believer all right, I believe in silver, gold, and diamonds. Exactly what is it you want from me?” Mickey spoke up, “There is much talk of this Samsung coming up with revolutionary concepts that will destroy our kingdom. He has already murdered many of our people and we need to stop him. There is a rumor that he has a secret weakness and we will pay handsomely for the information.” Da-Liar considered her options and believed she already knew his weakness but she decided the challenge would be exciting. “Oh I shall surely find your secret for you I’ll start investigating in the morning” Look out,….Here comes tomorrow.
Da-Liar made good on her promise when finding Samsung alone in the woods where they first met. She knew he went there when he needed to be alone and she would make sure to put a smile on both their faces. “Samsung, I hoped you would be here. I feel so horrible about what happened to you. Are you okay? Maybe I can help” She took his hands and peered tenderly into his sad eyes as he weakly replied, “I don’t think there is anything you can do Da-Liar. It just hurts me so much. How could Semedar do this to me?” Not skipping a beat Da-Liar reached down to his not yet bulging loincloth and went right to work on the horny hunk. In an instant she got his eyes to light up and the blood to rush to his heads by adjusting his pistons in just the right position. Da-Liar lowered her voice to her sexiest best as she glanced alluringly into his eyes, “Oh I am certain I can help you Samsung, if you just give me a chance.” With that she bent down and showed Samsung how much better she was at satisfying than her sister was. Samsung was speechless but made many unintelligible sounds. True to her calling Da-Liar successfully entranced the passion charged curly haired hunk by the curly hairs and captured his heart and soul luring him once again from his home to hers. I’m sure glad it wasn’t me who had to tell Mother Raven he was leaving the nest once again into the bed of the sultry Philly-Steen.
TBC

Searching For The Lost Ark

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ark-covenant_24751_600x450

Lost? Are you kidding me, the bitches stole that Ark
Raiders of the lost ark, the ark of the covenant. A piece of religious artifact so important and so powerful I sit in awe wondering how the fuck do you even lose something so precious? Did someone put it down somewhere and forget where they left it? Perhaps it was placed in someone else’s chariot by mistake? Did someone actually grab the wrong ark, one that looked similar. What if we look in the cusions of a very large couch? Or was that shit stolen? Its not the lost ark of the covenant it’s the stolen ark, and its nowhere to be seen because lets face it….Where the hell do you fence something like the ten commandments etched in stone and Torah scrolls? That’s one big ass haul but who can you sell it to?
So I’ve been mistaken for many years because as it turns out the lost ark isn’t Noah’s animal filled floating zoo but some kind of a box filled with religious stuff. My guess is that maybe it was an early Christian suggestion box or something. I expect it’d be filled with papers asking for shit like cushioned pews, refreshments in the confessionals, maybe some cool pictures in the bible, hymns with a better rock beat, and red vodka to replace the cheap wine at communion. That’s the sort of suggestions I’d make anyway. But back to this “lost” artifact. The story goes that the ark is a like a treasure chest filled with the actual stone tablets which the 10 commandments were etched in. It also contains Aarons rod, which it turns out is not Moses brothers porno flick but an actual walking rod owned by his brother said to have miraculous powers, a jar of Manna (an edible food kinda like an Israelite Slim Jim), and the first Torah scroll. Aside from the Slim Jim things these sound pretty important. You’d think exceptional care would be taken with this chest.
Of course that’s not the case, the Ark of the Covenant was either lost or stolen but the prudent thing to do is retrace its steps. The Israelites carried the ark around as they “Wandered about” for some forty odd years trying to locate the Promised Land. No GPS back then but still, lost for forty years? Maybe they should’ve stopped and asked for directions but guess who was in charge of driving? A man of course! When they did finally get it to Jericho they paraded the Ark around the city for seven days like they were rubbing it in the faces of the Jerichonians. However, when Benjamin defeated the Israelites he took the Ark from them. Here’s when things get a little dodgy. The Ark apparently exchanged hands between the Philistines and the Israelites a few times both claiming ownership at one time or another. And as if that shit wasn’t complicated enough some knock off Arks began showing up which looked remarkably similar to the original and were sold on the Lower Eat Side of the Fertile Crescent.
The last known authentic sighting of the Ark was in Solomon’s Temple atop ole Mount Zion. But Nebuchadnezzar came to town and wise old Solly got his ass kicked by the Babylonians who took over ownership. That’s where we completely lose track of it for ages.
Now of course something so intriguing would lead to much speculation. Like the modern UFO sighting craze the ark even has its own Area 51 and assorted plausible locations boasting of its existence. It may be buried in a cave at Mount Nebo as the Jordanians claim, or hidden away in Ethiopia being guarded by ganga crazed Rastafarians, or it could be in the Dubhe mountains in Zimbabwe where the locals call the chest “The Voice Of God.”
Even Europe gets into the act claiming it was taken and protected by The Knights Templar and resides now at an undisclosed location in the south of France, or in Rome at the basilica of St. John. Maybe the freemasons or the Illuminati have it stashed away inside The Dan Brown library or some pyramid with a giant all seeing eye in it. Even Britain, Scotland and Ireland lay claims of ark sightings answering to the ornate chests description stashed away in the mountains of the UK. But we know where it really is, in a Hollywood lot along with hundreds of other arks.
Videotape evidence is indisputable and they had no security cameras back in the ancient times. In fact they had no cameras at all and had to rely on sketch artists who were mediocre at best. I have seen with my own eyes footage of Indy Jones finding the original hiding place in Cairo, surrounded by snakes. Clearly the most plausible explanation is this. Nebuchadnezzar kicked ass and took names, and in the confusion the ark of the covenant was taken back to Babylon. It seems Nebby had his ass kicked a few years earlier in Egypt, where he lost a lot of Babylon’s wealth and the respect of most of his followers. In an effort to regain his peoples admiration he destroyed the temple of Solomon then forged a deal with Pharaoh Hophra who took possession of the ark in exchange for all the shit he stole when he kicked Nebby‘s butt a few years back. The Pharaoh hid the ark in a sort of tomb overrun with mean poisonous snakes (yea, I hate them too) and a strange set of rituals combined with perfect timing of the sun as a code to reveal its resting place.
Fast forward to 1936 when Indiana Jones begins a quest to find the ark before the Nazi’s get their hands on it. Suffice to say when the Ark is finally opened its revealed that the stone tablets and the scroll have turned to sand (its been a long time and even the Slim Jims didn’t make it) What remnants were leftover were cleverly edited to became some great footage of really cool special effects. Long story short there was nothing left inside that miraculous chest but the sand but at least Adolf doesn’t have it and we think we know where it is. In the final scene of the Raiders of The Lost Ark the ark is placed in a warehouse, or more accurately a Hollywood studio lot along with crates and crates of knock offs. So that’s where The Ark Of The Covenant resides today thanks to the efforts of Steven Spielberg and Paramount studios. In the end it was never really lost , just misplaced for a few thousand years…..PEACE

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Pool Hall Alumni

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images

All I Need To Know I Learned In The Poolhall

We got trouble. With a capital T and That rhymes with P and that stands for pool. I played a fair amount of pool in my day most of which was in my Misspent youth. Misspent Youth? That would suggest my childhood was squandered, idle, profitless, and wasted. Bullshit! Certainly not squandered I had a great many experiences and adventures and not idle, I spent much of the time with my heart racing in anticipation of childhood fantasy’s becoming real. Profitless? Please, I had two paper routes, worked as a stock boy in a deli and washed pots an pans in a restaurant before I was 16 so I made a good deal of profit. Of course I saved very little but I did put most of it back into the economy. I was supporting the tobacco industry, alcohol industry, record industry and whatever was left over supplied the mall with odd and end purchases. Wasted youth? Well ye if you mean I got wasted a lot in my youth yes but I didn’t waste my entire childhood I got a valuable education. But it wasn’t in school that I learned all I needed to know to survive, it was at the pool table.
Life’s most valuable lessons. The first time I stood at the table it was awe inspiring. A perfect symmetrically balanced rectangle with four corner pockets, two side pockets, and a smooth beautiful green felt top. On the western end of the table sat fifteen perfectly round numbered balls arranged in an equilateral triangle. Seven of those balls striped, and eight of them solid. But one solid ball stood out from the rest. Dead center of the triangle sat a most menacing looking black ball with the sign of infinity on it. Stunning. The east end of the table was where I stood, with a blank white ball with what looked like permanent light blue smudge scattered about it. This was my cue ball, as shiny as Mr. Cleans chrome dome of a head. I placed that white cue ball right on the dot which seemed like the proper place to begin. I would later learn I could in fact place it anywhere I desired behind that center marking. No worries, it was my first attempt anyway, I had a lot to learn. I stared down the table and looked at the triangle of balls. I knew what to do, I had watched many others play pool. I’d watched Minnesota Fats on TV too so I had a good idea how it was done. My brother showed me how to hold the stick and aim towards the balls. From there I was on my own. I pulled the stick way back, stared the white ball down, and let it fly as hard a I could. I hit that mother with all the strength a frustrated adolescent twelve year old should have. I took my sexual pent up frustrations out on that booming shot. The white ball took off like a space ship on warp speed and shot across the room in blissful arching trajectory. It searched for and found the wall with a loud crack, bounced three times on the floor and landed on a towel on the floor, effectively eliminating my shot as well as my dignity. Seemed as though the laughing would never subside. My first lesson? You can’t do precision work with a sledge hammer.
It takes finesse, something that also came in handy with the girls. The sledgehammer may look impressive, but a skilled worker makes the most of all his tools. In pool if you go too hard you end up scratching, but with the ladies if you try to hard you’ll en up all alone scratching your ass. So in life as well as pool its important to know how hard, or how easy to approach each opportunity. Don’t just start swinging your sledgehammer around everywhere trying to impress. It’s not how big your pool sick is it’s how you use it that makes you a winner. Judgment and charm baby! Don’t overcompensate, huge wheels on your pick up won’t make you a better driver. Finesse!
As the game went on I learned other valuable lessons. Like taking turns and only shooting when its your shot. Not only fair it keeps you from an ass kicking as well. Take someone else’s shot when they’re ready to sink a ball and be prepared to fight, guys are very possessive about their balls. Go for it when its your turn. Review the table and weighed your options. ! I see the 15 ball is sitting very close to the corner. I line up all my angles (Its geometry so pay attention in school) and let fly. A direct hit, the 15 ball smack dab into the corner pocket. Unfortunately the white ball liked the 15 so much it followed right behind and disappeared in the corner pocket as well. Lesson here was all about placement, you don’t want everyone watching your balls go in your pocket.
No need to be a bull in a china shop. Ease your way around the green felt table, don’t go bouncing your cue ball too hard, the balls may look sturdy, but they’re quite delicate. It seems I scratched again so now I wait.
When my turn came around again I surveyed the options again. The 12 ball was near the corner pocket but the 7 ball was blocking it slightly. If I went for the 12 I would have to figure out how to go around it. Hanging right at the side pocket was the 9 ball. I couldn’t hit it directly but it looked like if I tapped the 11 ball right it might roll into the 9 and knock it in. I opted for the side pocket keeping in mind how hard I hit the last one. A light tap into the11 and it slowly rolled over an nudged the 9 convincing it to fall head first into the side pocket. The 11 settled onto the cushion just beyond the side pocket and the cue ball just barely moved past where the 11 had formerly been. This left me with very few options for my next shot
This taught me style and finesse will help but its still important to look ahead. That young lady is real hot and sexy but if you don’t plan ahead how to make her happy she may end up against the cushion with someone else. You need to plan your future moves if you want a lasting relationship, I went for the lust. Now I‘m in a jam and if I thought ahead and hit it just a tad harder I would have lined myself up and maybe cleared my balls.
Basically what I learned at the pool table is if you want to get to Carnegie Hall take the E train to 7th Avenue an 57th, but if you want to sink your balls in the right pockets, you need to practice, practice, practice. Carefully aim you shots, never come on too strong, and once your in your groove go with the flow, cuz as your game goes on you get hotter and hotter.
One last thing…..beware of hustlers, there are plenty out there. They will make you think you play on the same level as they do, but when it comes down to getting what they want over what you want, they get suspiciously good at their craft.
Then again fuck it man, life’s a gamble…….. Rack em up!

Sleepless In New York (You Had Me At Gunpoint)

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What’s a nice gun like you doing in a place like this?
A writer is often called upon to take a memory that they’d prefer to leave full of cobwebs hidden away in the memory attic and bring it back to life for retelling. I’m told its therapeutic but truthfully I fear it may be the proverbial camel breaking straw that may release my inner serial killer. Maybe that’s harsh, more the harmless psychopath that dwells locked in the caverns of my id. But for the sake of art I will lurch head first into the darker depths of my era of depression an relive this horror in words. No, not THE depression, I’m not THAT old, my depression, the confused, self medicating years of my youth spent in the absence of light. I have a somewhat sordid past to begin with so there is the possibility this is a dangerous exercise that could unleash the devils warrior that may be lurking about in the hopes of finding a portal into the mortal. Ergo (I love using that word) I put forth a disclaimer or two. First, there are no innocent people in need of protection but names were changed anyway to make them sound more badass. Second, this story may or may not be true and may or may not be based on real life experience. Either way, it could happen to you. Here then is a tale of one night when my darkness encountered the darkness of a gun barrel. The night I was held at gunpoint.
Like most big cities New York has an underground drug market. On the Lower East Side you can get it all. Pot, pills, coke, dope, pretty much any drug you want, you just needed to know where to go and how its sold. On 14th street give the two finger V sign and you’ll attract valium salesmen, down on Third Ave listen for the word “sense” and you have pot. Coke is by Tompkins Park, and heroin is in the famed alphabet city. Life had dealt me some major blows, leaving me living in a tiny room with no family connections. I had used a lot of different drugs but my depression was at an all time low, even I didn’t want to hang out with me. I found solace in drinking booze and sniffing bags of heroin to take me away. It was a very dangerous game to play, one because its an unforgiving high and if you let it get you it won’t let go, and two because to cop it you had to go into the belly of the beast of the city where not a single soul can be trusted. But when you don’t give a shit about anything, even your pathetic life, it’s a risk worth taking. So I did, I went down on occasion to cop some dope. The dealers have people they call steerers, who steer you to the sellers. It’s a labyrinth designed to protect the dealers in which you encounter three people before finding the one holding the dope. This hot July night I was gamed by a junkie who posed as a steerer.
“Hey Bro, you looking for some good dope? Mr. T, the best shit in town right around the corner.” Mr. T was legendary dope, very strong and a real prize among users. In an attempt to let him know I knew my shit I asked, “Old executive or double Dee?” This Latin dude stared at me. He has very tight curled hair parted in the middle and a pock marked worn face partially covered by a weak goatee. “Hey look Bro, you be talking to Culebro, I da man wit da plan G. You want the real deal Hollyfield Exec or you wanna get that cheap ass double dee shit from the negritos Yo? Follow the Culebro if you want the good dope son I ain’t got time to play games boy the fucking man is all over this place. Come on ahead or get the fuck out!” I made a shit decision, I followed The Culebro.
It’s not uncommon for dope to be sold in an abandoned building. No neighbors, easy exits for the dealers, and no one to tip off the cops. But this abandoned building was just that, abandoned. I followed Culebro up to the third floor, the stairwells lit by candlelight. I thought that was a good sign, that usually the habits of a smart operation. Or an operation no longer in use. As soon as we entered the hallway on the third floor Culebro pushed me up against the wall and stuck a handgun to my head. “Okay blanquito, how much you gonna die for tonight?”
I’ve often heard the phrase “shit a brick” to describe a profound fear. First let me say that if one were to shit even little pieces of broken mortar it would take a great deal of effort and concentration, both of which were in short supply. I assure you bowel movement would be amongst the last thoughts one has with a loaded pistol poised at ones forehead. Nor would my thoughts cause me to perspire bullets. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. That would have at the very least offered some entertainment. Most of went through my head was more like, “Oh fuck. Oh shit. That’s a fucking gun! What the fuck am I gonna do now. This fucker is crazy and he’s gonna shoot me.” I also entertained the thought of being a statistic in tomorrows police blotter. Unknown twenty something found dead in center of chalk line on Lower East Side. Me, reduced to a thin line of white chalk! But that was a fleeting thought, what I instinctively knew was I had to escape or die. But how to approach this escape? Beg? “Oh please man please…don’t. I have a family somewhere maybe I’ll have children someday.” No, that won’t work. Calm reasoning? “Hey look man, this is a mistake, I’m not worth it. I have no money, the gun will make noise and cops will be up here in seconds.” No, cops aren’t anywhere near this area, its one of the poorest in the city. Here gunshots and sirens are like birdcalls in the morning. No go. Bargain? “Look man, I have plenty of cash in my apartment in the village, we can take the subway over and I’ll go up and get it all for you. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.” Right! He seems like such a trusting soul. Options are limiting rapidly. Then it hit me. My bright idea.
Living in the city that never sleeps has some unwritten, unspoken rules. There is a good chance that at some point you are going to get ripped off. Mugged. Always split up your cash an always have some cash somewhere. You never want to carry a lot of cash around but you always need something. If you get mugged and have at least a little cash you chances are good it’s a druggie looking for quick cash and will take your money and flee. Roll it up in bundles to make it look like more than it I. A well rolled wad of single can look like a major score, and most times the thief doesn’t stop and count. If you have nothing you run the risk of pissing them off and turning them bat shit crazy. I had my own strategy because purchasing drugs on the street was an art. Hundreds of scammers and muggers. I place my drug purchase money in my front pocket, a small wad of singles in my left, and a roll of cash in each sock. That way if I get mugged before copping I can still cop, and if its after I can give them money and they won’t know I have drugs. But this situation was different. This dude knew I had drug money and he wanted it. He doesn’t realize I live here, he thinks I’m a B&T. B&T is slang for Bridge and Tunnel, a reference to the fact that kids come from the suburbs of Connecticut, New jersey or Long Island to come to play in the big city by driving through the tunnel or over a bridge. Easy prey. But I was no longer B&T, I had been living in the city for four years now and knew a lot of tricks. I opted for one I practiced in my mind but never in a real life situation. I sprung into action.
With my hands in the air I said, “hold on man, hold on. I have some more cash here in my sock.” I slowly reached down towards my foot and removed a wad of singles wrapped in a twenty to show him. Then I flung it up in the air using my thumb to separate the bills and it looked like bills from heaven. It was just the distraction I needed and as he greedily started grabbing for the bills he lowered his gun and I fled like the track star I could have been if I applied myself. (that’s what my Mom always told me). I didn’t stop running until I reached the village, and I absolutely learned my lesson about dope. I’ll never cop anything in that neighborhood again!

Yes, I Read A Clockwork Orange in My School Daze

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Lesson in Civility

I enjoyed to writing but it came as a surprise to most that I also loved to read. Many of the teachers believed that I didn’t read because they knew my “type”. That meant worthless lazy potheads who don’t have enough ambition to read. They took me for a non caring loser who didn’t give a shit about education. Most of the time I just thought ‘fuck them’ cuz they‘ll always think their better than us.. I had just finished reading a complex and unbelievably outrageous book called “A Clockwork Orange” in which the characters had their own slang language making it a more difficult read than most. I walked into Mr. Refester’s class prepared to debate the attributes in this fine book that was to be the focus of the days lesson. Refester, or Reefer as we called him, always tried to trip me up. For what ever reason this fucker really had it in for me. It was no surprise that he directed many questions to me in an attempt to mess me up but I had the proper answers. That pissed him off so with his stupid smirk he asked me what happened to the main character in jail. The character, Alex, had killed a fellow inmate and gotten deeper in trouble. When I relayed this info to Reefer he shot me a distain filled glare and revealed his stern teacher voice. “That never happened in the book JT that only happened in the movie. This proves you didn’t read the book, you only watched the movie. Try reading next time instead of taking the easy way out like always. You get a zero for the day.” I was angry beyond belief. I had not even seen the movie and I loved the book so much I read it twice. Well I let him know this in no uncertain terms but he didn’t hear a word I said. Instead he went into a tirade of what happens to lazy marijuana smoking kids who try to fool their teachers. There is no doubt in my mind my face went from crimson to purple with anger. Periwinkle purple if I remember my crayola’s correctly. Tired from working last night, still slightly buzzed from second period, and angry as castrated hornet I flipped. Sick and tired of being unfairly judged I stood up to better state my case and looked around the room at my peers to see who might lend me support. Anyone who read the book would know I wasn’t lying and that was what happened in the book. Every last one of them turned their heads, looked down at their desks, or just smiled in approval at the injustice being thrust upon your friend and narrator. So all alone I stood on my oddy knocky infuriated and decided to stand my ground. After offering my own version of the account and pleading my case, Reefer just stared at me and said ‘Sit down Mr. Hilltop. Maybe you didn’t hear me. You get a zero for the day.” That was the final drinking tube that crushed the dromedary’s back. I eyed the door, thought about my options and what would be the smart thing to do. I knew the right thing was to sit down, regroup and go find a copy of the book to prove my credibility. The right thing has never been my forte. With that in mind I mumbled “Fuck you” just loud enough for everyone to hear as the silence blanketed the room. I then thought what the fuck, might as well give a parting blow to the asshole spineless peers in my class as well. I walked towards the door as Mr. Reefer kept yelling at me to get back in my seat and sit down, but the ship had already started sailing and was probably gonna sink anyway. I wanted to leave no doubt that I had read the book so as I opened the door I turned to my classmates and using the books slang in my most silky golass I creeched, “You bunch of vonny grazzy devotchkas and chellovecks. Nary a one of you had the yarbles to open your silent rots and speak their golass on behalf of yours truly. I’ll not slooshy another slovo. You can all kiss my sharries. My appy-polly loggies to the young devotchkas but enough of this chepooka. Seems I will always be on my oddy knocky in this excuse of a classroom. Bog save you all my droogies” As I slammed the door for effect I started to regret my actions already but I knew it proved I was in the right and now the whole class would have no doubt, unless of coursse they didn’t read the book and didn’t understand the language I used. I was right right right but still in deep shit. I was scared but also hot and needed to talk to someone, so I went straight to the cafeteria to find just one of my droogies, er friends.
“Hey Patrick, whats up bro?” Patrick was a cool bud who seemed to be friends with everyone, jocks, hitters, greasers, hippies and even the brainiacs. But today he was alone at the table which was cool by me, I needed to calm down anyway. “Hey whats happening JT? You skip class man?” “Yea bro, something like that. Fucking just had a fight with Reefer and walked out of his class.” “Oh man that sucks. What a douche that fuckhead is. Come on over after school and I’ll sneak out the bamboo pipe.” Fucking A Patrick, you’re the fucking best. I know I’m gonna get in a shitload for this. I think I told him to fuck himself in front of the whole class.” At first Patrick looked at me with deer in headlight stare. I saw his eyes soften up and begin to cave in on the sides and he began his loud guffaw of a laugh he had become famous for. “Ah ha ha oh my gawd JT, you said it out loud? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” We both laughed for about five minutes and as soon as I composed my self I said “I don’t think Reefer thought it was funny. Anyway whadda ya gonna do? Fuck him.” “You may get in trouble JT, but it one helluva great story to have. We can talk about it later. C’mon over after school, I got some black hash that’s preamo.” “Thanks bro, we can always count on our friends. No one else, but always our friends.” No sooner had I said that when one of the school principals pets came up to me and said “Justin, Mr. Winston wants to see you.” “Yea, that sounds about right. Catch ya later Patrick. Right after school?” “No problem JT, I’ll be waiting.” Time to pay the piper, whatever the fuck that meant!

Prisoner Of Love

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During the insidious adventures of JT he learns some hard truths about himself

Prisoner Of Love

That inevitable moment arrived, and we both knew it was coming. Time for JT to leave and move on to the next adventure. This time I wasn’t really sure if I wanted new a new adventure. More unsettling was I wasn’t sure how I felt about Jo. Could it be love? Maybe. Not the traditional type of love but a strange and alluring love that grabs hold while your not paying attention. A love who‘s destiny it was to fail. One that started as a time bomb of sexual tensions that made good on its promise to fulfill both our intense needs and then must fizzle out. That was all it was supposed to be, two lovers sharing the comfort of each other for just a short time. But the sexual volcano erupted and the lava it released was strong and unfamiliar. Is it emotional feelings? Not good! Not good at all!
We agreed from the start that before her boyfriend got back home we would go our separate ways and we were okay with that. No attachments, no bullshit, not strings. At the time it seemed like a good idea but I never considered that emotions might figure into the equation. I mean sex without commitment should be a young mans dream. And the sex was good, god damn was it good. Reckless abandon. She put the music on real loud to drown out our very loud sexually motivated squeals and promises . I can’t even remember half the shit I said but the half I do remember all involved me pleading gods name louder than I ever did before. So often and so loud you woulda thought I was a devout follower.
The fact that no strings were attached was what made it so intriguing. It wasn’t supposed to happen but I was pretty sure I did love Jo. I reasoned I was just not in love with her. At least I didn’t think I was. She understood me the way Tina had, we intertwined emotionally the way Carrie and I had, yet I knew from the start she was unattainable. Maybe that was it, maybe just wanting something I know I can’t have is whats driving these feelings?! One thing I was certain of is Josie and I were really good together, even our conversations were deep. But it was time to discard the emotions and say good by. Who knew it would be so difficult. We laid naked in bed in a satiated silence after what was presumably our final high energy fling. Anyway we went at it as if it were our last time either of us would ever make love again. So much determination and passion we were motionless for over an hour before she spoke.
“JT Sweetie, I sweer I ain’t never gonna firget you baby. But y’all know Jake is coming back tomorrah and you bess be long gone for then.” She placed her head on my chest using her soft curls as a pillow. She tenderly reached around my shoulder to lightly scratch the back of my neck. “Why does it have to end Jo? Why can’t you come up north with me?” She moved her hand to my lips, “Shush now Justin, y’all know that caint happen. Things is way differnt down here baby. Things is expected of a gurl down here. My Mama won’t never furgive me an my Papa, well Papa ain‘t one to anger up none.…Ya don’t wanna be puttin no bee in yer bonnet with Papa, Honey J. I juss caint do that, my future got be with Jake. Thats the way its spose to go. I got to think about the future.” I placed my arms around her and planted her head firmly between my neck and chin to caress her with my cheek. “It doesn’t have to go like that. You are in charge of your future. You make your choices. There ain’t no reason you can’t leave here. Hell baby child even if its not with me why get married to someone you don’t love? Trust me, that shit don’t end well at all, I been there and it sucks.” I could feel a tear on her cheek. She sat up, “JT, that’s not how life is here in Conway South Carolina. I gotta answer to Jesus. I know y’all don unerstand that but it means a lot here Baby Boy. A girls folks expeck her to marry the man they wants fur her to marry, have chillen and raise them to fear the lord. Womens don’t get to do no choosin’ round here. A girls past can foller her around an make her life horrible if ya goes against thangs. My past is determining my future, and my past is with Jake. So now my future got to be that way too, Sugarpie. Don’t matter none what I wants.” I looked at her incredulously. “That’s not true Jo it matters very much what you want. Its your life pretty girl. Your past only determines who you were. Its what lead you to your present but it sure ain‘t who you are now. You can’t live in the past Babydoll that’s over. Your past is gone, you own your future.” I gently kissed her on the temple. “Listen to your heart Jo, what’s your heart saying? The heart knows because the heart lives in the present and begs you for a future. A future that you want, not what god or Jesus or your mom and dad want, but what Josie wants! You’re not defined by your past and you can rewrite your future Sweet Thing. Listen to your heart. I think I hear it whispering my name.” She smiled a half smile that told a hundred stories. The story of the past two weeks, the story of a girl and a boy sharing the most perfect moment in time. It hinted at what could be while at the same time mercilessly reminded her of her fate. It told of deep stories of sadness and defeat, told by a lonely girl who believes she has no control over her own life. Stories of things gone by and things to come, but not the story of the now, the right here. No stories of a happy ever after with me or of endless possibilities. A smile that is fighting the sadness underneath, a profound smile with eyes that confirmed the feeling of hopelessness. “Weeze all defined by our pasts JT, ain’t none of us can rewrite the future no matter how much we want to. The heart only lives in the present because its afraid of breaking. Like mine is this here right this second. I dint never spect this to be so hard baby. I aint even sure how it happened, but we had us two weeks of bliss and I ain‘t sorry bout a second of it. But it got an endin sugar, I‘m sorry but as much as it hurts me this song is ending. Every song ends. I sure done wannit to stop neither but that’s my life honeypie. Things happen for a reason an we juss gotta figger out what the reason fur us was.”
We embraced deep in thought for a few minutes. This feeling was so foreign to me. Fuck man, am I starting to grow up? I’m not sure why but I still wasn’t ready to let this all just slip away, “Jo baby listen” I sat up and took her hands in mine. We stared into each others soul with piercing compassion. Our eyes embraced. “The past doesn’t matter Josie Rae. You done things in the past and I done things in the past but that’s history, not destiny. Maybe its our destiny to look beyond our pasts and think about a future. I never really thought that things happen for a reason, like fate or anything. I always believed everything was random and just happened. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe shits not just random. All the things that happened to me were so we could meet. That’s why I took a trip with people I knew I had no business being with. That’s why I got busted and stuck in jail. To meet you. I learned a lot about myself doing my time in prison. Maybe I was in prison to straighten my head and to get ready for you and me.” Now her smile was thoughtful, she was fully aware she was in complete control of everything. One of the things I love about her. (did I say love?) “Sweetie, you wasn’t in no prison. You was in jail Baby Boy. You spent time incarcerated in a southern jail, and maybe you sure enough did do some growin there, but it was just a jail, not a prison. People like you an me we carry our prisons on our backs. It sure nuff don’t seem right but thets how it is fur our kind. We dream but we ain’t never in control of our dreams, not really. Way I figger it weeze born wit the prison on our backs, you an me. We likely carry’em tar graves. And we been out of prison for four glorious week, maybe the best four weeks of my life. Leastwise the happiest. That’s what I got hon, an that’s gun be my most precious memory. I sure hope its yers too, cuz it shore was like heaven. For four weeks Justin you let me out of prison and I will always be thankful for that. But I got to take my prison back tomorrow, and I recon youse gonna fine yersff a prison you can live with too. Leastwise I recon you will. Lets juss firget all bout this now an just be happy with each other one last time. Lets make love once more afore you leave.”
I had no argument left, she was right. I did carry a prison on my back, I always had. Besides, over time she would get tired or bored of me, or worse, something bad would happen to her. No one stays with JT. Not for long anyway. That was my prison, a life that’s a plague of death and abandonment. Like I always seem to do I get hung up on the people that leave my life, Joe, James, Ken, Bill, June, an even my mom. I put them aside and thought about the past four weeks and I gave her the most passionate kiss I was capable of. Then we made love. We made love for over an hour, not with reckless abandon this time, but with calculated tenderness. When we finished we wrapped our arms around each other and never spoke another word. We both fell asleep and when I woke up it was six o’clock. I quietly got out of bed and kissed Josie Rae Sessions on the cheek and whispered, “I don’t care what you say pretty girl, I love you.” I could swear she smiled but whether he did or not, the only fair thing for me to do for her was to exit quietly. At that moment I knew I did in fact love her and that’s why I have to go. That’s how much a really love her, my staying would only hurt her. I let my heart break so she could go where she truly believed he belonged. It wasn’t right, it totally sucked but thats the kind of shit you do for real love. Sacrifice. Love comes with consequences and you gamble on some pain. I learned how much love really can hurt, how my love for one woman was so strong I broke my own heart to allow her to follow hers. Right or wrong, that wasn’t for me to choose. I had my life to focus on now. I washed up, got dressed and left. I left with exactly what I had arrived with four weeks ago. My wallet, my clothes, and the prison on my back.

Dead To Writes

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eulogy
Beginning With My End In Mind.

I’m writing a eulogy for someone. It’s a person I know inside out, that’s been there for me through thick and thin. Someone I’ve known my entire life. Me. After all, I was there when I traveled down that birth canal without a paddle, I was there when the doc smacked my ass, and I’ve been with me ever since. Obviously I’m not dead yet, but I’ve been to too many funerals and heard too many eulogies to know that without my assistance in memorializing me it would lack the humor, conviviality, and sarcasm my last formal spoken memory should encompass. I don’t want my wife or my kids to struggle over what I would want said so I’m taking out the guesswork.
When I say I’m writing it sounds like I recently started it but the truth is its been a project now for a few years. I keep putting it on the back burner and tell myself “No worries, you have plenty of time.” Hope I’m right because I love writing and I’m not ready to stop. I still have way to many things to say. Ergo I write. I’ve got tons of other projects in the works. I’ve done quite a lot of writing over the years. I wrote poems, most of which suck, a song or two, also sucky, as well as a number of short stories. I’d like to write a few more before my best used by date. I’ve been working on a novel on and off that so far has taken up more than three years of my life. But fuck it at least I’ve settled on the title. Of course nothing is certain except taxes and de…….Nevermind! It’s the third title actually but I really like this one. And as of now only two or five chapters have been re-writes and I am relatively certain of its direction.. So between being the foremost authority on me combined with my love of writing, it only makes sense that I should write my own eulogy. In fact, I highly recommend it everyone but get started soon because its not as easy as it seems.
The first problem a writer encounters during their own eulogy is that dreaded re-write. Nothing is ever perfect. First I just change a word, then I change a sentence, and before I know it I’ve said fuck it and erased the whole thing just to start over. I have my strong finish, and my cheery opening, and know most of what I want to include so I just need to settle on the finality. As I was writing it I struggled with what my format should be.
After a number of musings and a fair amount of wine I finally settled on a basic format. The first paragraph should be about what I don’t want. I don’t want anyone to mention god in any way shape or form. I respect others faiths but I’m the dead one here so I call no mentioning god. Check that, god can be mentioned if its like “Oh my fuckin god he was a pisser“, or “god damn he was funny” or “oh god don’t stop, oh god yes,yes,yes” anything along those lines is permissible. Maybe the last one should be in the privacy of your own whereever. Also I don’t want anyone to say to my family that I’m with god now. If I’m wrong about the whole heaven and hell thing I’ll be taking the elevator to the basement anyway. That doesn’t mean you should tell them “It’s okay, he’s with Lucifer now” either. And by all means stay away from the clichés. “I’m sorry for your loss” sounds like something Mr. and Mrs. Hallmark says to their grieving loved ones. Just share memories and remember the good times. I’m not really going anywhere I just made it to the next level.
Also, I don’t want anyone reciting religious scriptures or saying prayer over me, especially a stranger. You want to pray do that shit on your own in silence. And pray for yourself not for me, I don’t want any prayers. I’m an existentialist, we don’t pray we think. So meditate, its my funeral and I’ll have it the way I want. Seriously guys it’s the most important day of my death so cut me some slack. Here’s what I want everyone to do. Laugh, tell jokes and funny stories, get drunk, sneak out and smoke a joint, do whatever you need to do to make it fun. Thats what I want, a fun funeral like Chuckles the clown got. I want people to say “Damn I wish he was alive so he could die again. What a great time I had. This was the best funeral I’ve ever been to.” That shit would please me to no end. Maybe even make a dead man smile. And please don’t worry about making me blush I have no circulation.
The next stipulation was to honor me as my life was. I ask for a mug of beer. The good shit too, not that crap beer flavored water, but a good craft brew. It’s not like you need to buy it for me ever again. Next to that a shot of vodka, preferably Grey Goose. Leave them at a table as if I were sitting there and then have a party. My son will toast me adios ghost by downing the vodka at the end of the night. No sense in wasting good vodka!
The final stipulation was choosing a good play list. I may be dead but that’s no reason I should be subjected to crap music. No disco, no opera, no hymns. Good music, party music, maybe a tribute to the different decades. Ones with a good beat that you can dance to. I made a list of all my favorite tunes and even chose a few lines of lyrics to highlight that meant something to me. I don’t want my dead spirit to rest in peace I want it to Rock In Peace!
As far as what’s done to my remains, here’s where it gets a bit dodgy. Realistically whoever gets left behind should choose what to do with the physical remains cuz they’ll be dealing with them, I’m moving on sans remains. If it were up to me I actually have two choices. One to be put into a compost somewhere so I can continue to enrich the earth. A sort of true eternity, always contributing life back somewhere. But as I understand it that’s complicated. The second wish is that whatever is left, be it bone or ash, be buried under a dance floor at a popular club. How cool would it be to have thousands of people dancing on my grave?
By far the writing of the eulogy is what was the most difficult. I had to write it with humor, candor, and a degree of sensitivity. As much as I’m writing it for myself, my family will hear it as well so its probably not the best time to let out any secrets. But it will give me an opportunity to let everyone know I don’t regret dying, I had a wonderful life. Hard as it may be I’d prefer people be happy for me. It’s the loved ones left back on earth that need consoling, not me. I’m the lucky one, I’ve gone to those proverbial greener pastures.
I believe I am about three quarters done with it but as some of you may know once I get started I sometimes become long winded. Sometimes I just go on an on and on about this and that until….never mind. I’ll just say its close to being done. I’m trying to so as much of the event planning as possible. I‘m a really good cook and I wish I could do the cooking but that would be way too creepy. The party is almost there. I’ll tell you one thing having almost completed the written segment of my passing has been quite liberating. I feel like once I finish this eulogy I’ll be ready to move on, to go wherever it is I go, to say good by sweet world. In fact I know I’ll be ready to take the next step. Bring on the closure! ………..Then again, maybe I’ll put it on the back burner just a little longer………….PEACE

The Copperfield Christ

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Forward

Lucifer, Beelzebub, The Antichrist, Fallen Angel, Prince of Darkness, Ozzie Osborne, whatever name he goes by he is the devilish serpent in charge of all things evil. Satan is one bad ass Samuel Jackson. He’s the Mothah of all fuckahs and he will strike down upon thee with GREAT vengeance. Essentially Satan is the dark angel of everything fun. Wait! I mean evil, yea that’s it, evil! Satan wants us doing nothing but eating forbidden fruits all day and night. But not God! Oh no, God is good God is great. He’s our lord god in heaven. Blessed are the meek, the lord is my shepherd I shall not want. This is the sort of crap I was taught as a kid anyway, before I uncovered Godgate, The great god Swindle. It’s a scandal of biblical proportions making Noah’s soggy story more like a three hour tour ending up on an uncharted dessert isle. The truth took some serious feather ruffling and that don’t fly with me. It started before the birth of Jesus and continued until the truth became so blurry they should give Claritin instead of wafers at communion. How did I get there?
Like most kids I was raised to believe unconditionally and to never question authority. Besides questioning why was unfulfilling and always ended up in the same old cul e sac. “Because I said so!” Please that’s the best you got? WTF? There isn’t a Vulcan worth their pointed ears that could find a nano sliver of logic in this ridiculous answer! Fascinating! Seriously, it has no empirical value and is tediously rhetoric. It’s an answer that defied challenge for one reason. I was unable to respond it because “that’s just the way it is and I could like it or lump it.” It‘s the law! I grew up I learned a lot about laws. How to bend, break, twist, and get around them. I also learned that not obeying laws can have consequences. Bad consequences, like incarceration or fines. Then one day I heard someone mistakenly say, “Laws are made to be broken.” Epiphany.
I wondered why laws were created in the first place? Laws of the people and for the people to keep the “authorities” in control. Laws were made after someone did something authorities didn’t like. Yea,yea, I hear you, laws are the framework of a civilized society, to protect people from those who may take advantage of others and shit. But who is making those laws and more disconcerting who is making sure the laws are being followed by the ones who made them? Laws by nature are bathed in hypocrisy. It’s illegal to steal from another human being, but its okay for some humans to steal gestating babies from chickens. Stealing eggs and selling them is okay. A stretch I agree, but fundamentally we allow some humans to make money stealing from animals, capturing them and raising them for anything from shoes to coats to dinner or to lab experiments. That however is a different fight. My focus today are laws.
There’s a mysterious group of humans known only to us as “They.” They say it may rain, they say you only live once, they say you can’t take it with you, they care about you, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot. “They” are in charge, and “They” make the laws. They make them because we don’t know how to live life fairly. They decide what the proper punishment should be for our crimes. They do this for our own good. They sound so…..parental!
I was born with a rebel spirit and I had a problem with authority from the start. When Mom told me alcohol was bad I started drinking, when she told me marijuana would lead to heroin I smoked pot, when she told me masturbating would make me go blind I…….. lets just say I have first hand experience in the art of self autoeroticism and I still have 20/20 vision. Rebel spirit caused me to question everything. EVERYTHING! Mom forced me to attend Sunday School, and one day I was cutting out with a friend to smoke cigarettes behind some trees. We got to talking about all the fun we were missing out on and it came around to old Lucifer. Why is Satan portrayed as evil and horrible if he insists we do things that make us feel good? Satan encourages sex and god forbids it if his conditions are not met. Unmarried sex is forbidden. Sex between members of the same sex is forbidden. Why would God make sex feel so fucking good and then forbid us to do it how we like? Not having sex can make horny teen boys unpredictable and stress them out making them violent. What’s the point of dangling a carrot (phallic symbol alert) in front of the horses mouth? Why make it a sin to do things that feel so good. The big guy talked to Moses disguised as a burning bush (another symbol alert). Then he laid down some laws. A few were more common sense than laws like don’t steal or kill people, but others a tad vague. I’m not allowed to covet my neighbors wife. I didn’t even know what covet meant, I had to look it up. If he doesn’t want us desiring why does he make us all so damn sexually attractive? He made flowers with their organs hanging all out in the open and has us staring at their gonads saying, “Oh how pretty” and even sticking our noses right into their floral sex canals to breath in the sweet aroma of desire. We can covet the hell out of flowers, but don’t gat caught looking at your neighbors cleavage, that’s a sin!. My favorite law is no worshipping images. Oh, like the cross? Statues, busts, paintings, rosaries, all sorts of ways to pay homage via an image. Today there isn’t a Christian alive that doesn’t worship some company logo! (No coincidence the leading iLogo is Apple) So I’m not buying into these laws, or “commandments” that are being force-fed to us through religion. That’s why I started the investigation in the first place. Unfair laws.
I don’t mean to take his name in vain but God damn they made a lot of laws back in the century! And God has us jumping through hoops still today. He makes us pray, assemble in buildings on the day of his choice, and makes us get all dressed up just to listen to how bad we are. Then he makes us give money to the dude that just read us the riot acts. He makes us sit on wooden benches til our asses have cheek bruises plus we gotta kneel down before him. First he makes us pray, then he makes us look like fools by singing songs we really don’t like or fully understand. “Ave Maria!”, “He walks with me and he talks with me“, “Nearer my god to thee“, “The rugged cross“, all such repetitive songs. Who wrote these hymns the Dr. Seuss of Christianity? “Onward Christian soldiers“….Hey! Wait a minute, whaddaya mean soldiers? Is god indoctrinating us to fight a crusading war? Or maybe, just maybe it’s a ploy by god to make us look like jerks sinning silly songs sans karaoke. Maybe god’s pranking us with all those laws! Otherwise why would we follow him and obey all his rules without raising a question. Because he said so?! Oh I get it, god is a Mom!
I can’t except not asking questions. Questions are the main reason I began this investigation in the first place. I wanted to find out who God was and who Satan was, and how the Bible came to be the defining word on humanity. My investigation took me back to the fourth century and I uncovered secrets that have been kept for thousands of years. Are we worshipping the right entity or was there a major switcheroo and ultimate coupe de gras? One thing is for sure, the struggle for power today has deep roots that go way back. You’ve heard the stories “They” want you to hear, now hear the stories that have been buried, and the people that were killed just for talking the truth in caverns, taverns, and campfires throughout the Middle East. Read carefully and choose what you believe wisely. The truth may not set you free it just may scare the Hell out of you!. Or into you.

Writing The Great American Cupcake

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Butcher, Baker, Story Maker

I am a chef by profession, a baker by accident, and perusing my original passion by choice. Before its too late. That means writing, using words to formulate artistic expression from the rambling thoughts that burn within this cranium. Or hippocampus or whichever part of the brain deals with the mysterious and unexplainable mental explosions.
I first got into cooking as a way to make money. I was 16 and already a rebel spirit who didn’t fully understand that knowledge was power. It wasn’t easy knowing everything but it was a chore I took on gleefully, making sure everyone knew how clever I was using my biting sarcasm. I had a decent job in a restaurant and knew I could do it all on my own and had no need extended education. Besides, I needed beer money, weed money, money to entertain lady friends, and money to save for a better ride. A beat up VW was cool for smoking pot with the guys but not much of a chick magnet. With only my beetle to cruise for love with I had to rely on my unyielding charm in order to get laid. Fate introduced me to a free-spirited hippie chick and then began its legendary twisting. Hence life snuck up on me and I found myself with a pregnant girlfriend. Ever the idealist I did the honorable thing and got married. We gave it our best go but it meant trading in my dream of writing the worlds hippest novel to a attending cooking school so I could raise a family. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about today, that’s just a situation that took me off the course of chasing what I wanted, to become a writer. Missed opportunities but WTF.
I’m still cooking for a living. I did do some butchering, I worked at a number of high end New York City Restaurants, and food became my focus and my passion. The years pealed by and I became better and better at cooking, and more and more knowledgeable about food. It sidelined my passions until now. So this tiny segment of the writing world is where I am, and as small as my audience is they are faithful and encouraging. I was fortunate to have trained under a French chef who was young, passionate about food, and very cutting edge. He taught me technique, dexterity, and how to convert my pent up creative energy into food. He showed me that cooking can be more than just a job, it can be a creative outlet. That’s when I realized that writing is not so different that cooking. They both involve all the senses, as a chef I need you to enjoy the smells, textures, and tastes, and I need to make you see the beauty in my presentations and hear the sounds of what eating good food brings forth. Proper cooking is performance art. A writer needs to make you feel the same things without any props, with only words. We can’t use color, texture, aroma, taste or sound, we have to make the reader sense them, believe that they are right there.
That when I thought about this experiment. To describe the parallels between writing and cooking as it relates to science and art. Since cupcakes are what have become my marked territory these days, I’m writing the great American cupcake.
The first thing I do is conceive the composition of my cupcake. What the main flavor, where will I start it and how will I get to the end. So I don’t know what my finished product will be, but I know where to start. Once begun the cupcake will write itself. So I gather the basic elements of the story and place them all in a mixing bowl. Once in the bowl they blend together and begin to take shape. I have the basic start, the batter. Chapter 1.
Now I know what the cupcake will be about and its time to fill in the events. I need to follow some structure so the batter is symmetrical and forms in a manner consistent with the rest of the finished cupcake. If I baked the ingredients before mixing, the storyline of the cupcake wouldn’t make sense. It needs to have integrity. I choose what size pan and fill the batter in. Now its time to place it in the oven and let things begin baking. But at what temperature? That decision creates the first conflict the cupcake faces as the true story takes shape.
After the conflicts have percolated enough and resolutions have been achieved the cupcake comes out of the oven. I have my base and I set up the standards to follow. The look, smell, and taste of the story will remain consistent from here but I must add some more flavor and juicy situations, and of course some more conflicts. My brain has been working overtime, so now I need to decompress a bit. I let the story cool and I get drunk. Not because I want to, but because my art is so important to me I need to suffer. Hangover, here I come.
A good three bottles of wine and restless sleep has worked wonders for my cupcake bakers block. Idea’s course through my head while I’m in the shower. Why always in the shower?? I get my best ideas when I’m wet, naked, and without paper or pen nearby. My wife merely shakes her head as I run dripping wet from the shower to the desk to try and commit the recipe to paper. She suggests a small tape recorder but my problem is I’m old school, and my creativity runs through my fingers. Besides, I hate the sound of my own voice, it makes me sound so dorky.
At any rate the pounding of hot water on my body shook loose a new cupcake plot twist. A pomegranate and plum custard filling! A cupcake love triangle, which always interests the reader! So be it, the very second I arrive at the bakery I take out my keyboard and begin to prepare the tasty custard, with its silky rich texture. Once it becomes cool enough I inject all that drama into the center of the story. Now the cupcake continues to write itself and takes shape. But this is the tedious part, filling in all the cracks. Maybe I should go back and rewrite part of the cupcake, I sense that something about it just isn’t perfect. I struggle with the cupcake for days and finally decide to keep going to the end when I will edit the whole thing.
Now for the icing on the cake. (that wasn’t an analogy, its time to ice the cupcake) I won’t say the icing is the most important part of the story, but it has to have a powerful statement, and have the consumer understand how the entire cupcake came to this point. It needs to leave a lasting impression. Maybe even set it up for a cupcake sequel.
The finish has to have everything. The look, the feel, the taste, and a sense of continuity leaving the one eating it with a sense of closure. After ingesting the tastes the reader has vested so much personal time in its impotents to reward them with a strong finish, the story should leave a good taste in the readers mouth and hopefully such a good taste they will think about the baker next trip to the bookstore.
I guess what I’m really saying here is directed to the young written (or typed) word expressionists here. Never quit, never give up. If you have to take on a job to live do it, but continue to write in your spare time. All your work is worthy, don’t toss any away. Even when you get pissed at what you wrote and in a fit of self deprecation decree your work unworthy don’t. Put it aside, pour a vodka, light a joint, meditate, so whatever calms you down and chill. Rest the brain waves for a while. I have a few notebooks of written emotion that have been discarded and sent to a senseless death. Keep writing, keep dreaming, keep believing. A cupcake will go stale but a great idea will last forever if you put it into words…..PEACE

Dying To Be Something Special

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The physicist creator of this universe takes time to explain life and death at the end

You believe you have made this world a better place? So many creatures that have perished from your great advances would disagree as to how great those human accomplishments have been. You fancy yourselves the superior species yet you think nothing of killing each other. Animals don’t kill for sport, or torture each other for revenge or just sick pleasure. Sure you pretend to care, but look at like this, you walk down the street with an assault rifle and kill random ten men you’d be arrested for the rest of your life. Do the same thing in combat and you’re a hero. You like to pick and choose who and when killing is okay but why should humans get to choose? Humans are willing to kill over disagreement of arbitrary geographic boundaries or differing faiths. You never learned to process this most important information. Life is precious. You place animals in cages away from where they live so your kids can all gawk at the mighty lion or laugh at the funny chimpanzees. Solely for your amusement.
Ever think of how they got there? I can tell you they didn’t walk in and ask if you would put them up here for the rest of their lives because this jungle is scary. The journey to your game farms, zoo’s, and aquariums were not pleasant. Animals should be left where they’re supposed to be, living on earth like everything else, even humans. Yet you raise animals to slaughter them, shave their hides for fashion. But as you say, that barn door is closed, it has gone way too far and it will take an act of profound evolutionary coincidence to reverse it. On some levels humans are a disappointment. You see JT, when I created your universe I had one rule to follow, and that was to never interfere with the process and development of life. We create life and then watch it take its course.
Not that we grow things just to look at, we grow them to allow them to experience. You may not realize this but those mighty oak trees feel as proud as they look and they enjoy their lives, the dangers and pitfalls as well as the wonder of having birds nest on them and watching as the generations of robins live out their lives. Yes there are dangers out there, and survival of one is often at the expense of another, but life is a happy accident. It’s an honor to have one and you have had a very rich one if you really think about it. You can point out the ugly parts, the funerals you attended, losing people close to you, the tragedies of life, the struggles and hard times, but don’t overlook those good things. That’s what made life so worth living. How many of those mountains and waterfalls and trees an flowers did you have a chance to enjoy? How many moments of intense joy did you experience? More than many I can tell you that. If you think back the magnifigance of life will far outweigh the tragedies. The truly sad part is it needs to end. Life ends JT so another life may have its opportunity to thrive and enjoy. You had a great life and you were part of something very beautiful. All those moments in time you had are a part of not only your memories, but the memories of those who loved you. You leave their lives but not their hearts. Like the animal that dies in the forest you never really leave the universe you just become something else. A dead animal was food for grub worms, which were eaten by crickets, which were eaten by owls and so on. Nothing really leaves the jungles, it becomes another form of life. You are more lucky because the cosmos is your jungle, and you get to become other parts of the universe. If there was one thing I wish humans could convey back after they die it would be to shake up the living and tell them to enjoy life. Stop fighting over things that don’t really matter and enjoy the fantastic world around them. But alas, I fear the message will never be brought back down to earth. Anyway, its your time to leave and your going where you were always meant to go.
Now I was pretty much speechless. All I could do was think over all he had told me. Knowingly Al took me by the hand and walked me into another room, a much more comfortable room. It was warm and inviting and I began to get just a little nervous as if I were in a cosmic hospice. The room was all glass and surrounded by a huge garden filled to the brim with plants and flowers, and chipmunks and birds. Alive with sounds of life, chirps, growls, shouts, running water. Like I was getting a last look at all the beauty my planet had offered me through the years. There was a stairwell that led to what I guessed was an observation deck of some sort. Al pointed up the stairs and I went, all the time taking in the sights, sounds and smells. So beautiful, I hope I’m not going to miss it too much. When I got to the top I nearly was blown away. It was like a dream observatory looking out into space, the cosmos, or infinity. More stars than I had ever seen, even in my younger days before light pollution obscured the nightscapes. “Oh my god Al, this is remarkable.” Al was smiling. “An odd choice of phrase, oh my god, don’t you think?” I knew he was teasing me so I gave him the response he wanted. “It’s a conditioned response Al, I get it. God is a concept we invented to explain how beautiful and precious life is. That’s what the woman I first met meant when she said God is everything. God does exist but its not in the form of a spirit, human, or even a scientist for that matter. God is a concept to help us understand the information we are unable to process. The truth. That’s what I’m here for right.?” Al just gave me a knowing nod and placed his arm over my shoulder. The two of us stared into the sky for some time, inhaling its enormity.
“So what Al, this is it? All the stars out there… that’s where I’m going?” I was staring up through the skylight and the view was breathtaking. Literally. “Yes JT, that’s your next destination. You are a bundle of billions and billions of tiny balls of energy and you will be released out there to become energy parts in millions of other matter. That’s why as a young boy you would stare up at the night sky with such awe and wonder, you where looking up to your future and it was…it IS beautiful. All your dreams of astral transport, traveling from star to star, visits to the moon and beyond. It’s happening, it’s real. Except your present self won’t know it. You were meant to gather info on earth and absorb it so you can enrich the cosmos. This my son…this your big moment. You are about to become part of something bigger than you could ever imagine. So go ahead, take off JT.”
I gave Al one last look, and smiled at him. “I’m sorry I made you look so nerdy Al, you deserve better. Thank you, thank you so much for this.” We stood in silence for a few seconds. “You know you’re right Al, I remember staring up at the night sky and seeing the big beautiful moon, and the thousands of sparkling little stars and always imagined being part of it, being up there and dancing on the stars.” Al was smiling a big smile now and he nodded towards the stars. I knew, knew in an instant it was my time to go, I gave Al one last look, mouthed the words thank you one last time, and left my world a very happy bundle, of billions and billions of balls of energy.
The Beginning